Lamb
by drama-princess
Summary: Spike dreams with sharp, hot pain that doesn’t taste sweet like it should.


Title: Lamb  
Author: drama-princess  
Pairing: Hints of Spike/Drusilla and Spike/Buffy.  
Characters: Spike; Drusilla; Willow; Dawn; Buffy.  
Setting: Season 6, set sometime around Older and Far Away  
Rating: R  
Warning: Disturbing sex talk and a bit of violence. I own nothing and I'll put the toys back in the box when I'm through.  
Summary: Spike dreams with sharp, hot pain that doesn't taste sweet like it should.  
  
Darla said once that immortals didn't dream. Spike snapped at her after Dru had spent her night clinging to him. Dru's fingertips stayed wet with blood until she let him lick it off. Darla didn't have to sit up and listen to Dru whimper. Just like that damned gypsy girl whose heart Angelus had lapped at and eaten up. Dru's nightmares spread across the velvet chaise like her long white legs.   
  
Spike dreams now with this bloody chip buzzing away in his head, sending off the white sparks of neural signals and the sharp, hot pain that doesn't taste sweet like it should. He wonders if this is what Dru felt. His hush-shh-now inside her pretty head. Maybe this is why Dru left him. Could she smell the dirty metal scrap inside his brains?   
  
Spike dreams with splashes of colour, gold melting into splotches of red. Blood turns into fire when he drinks. Bloody chip's inside his veins now, cutting and dividing the bread until he snatches at the scraps.  
  
He dreams of some dank crypt, his leather duster falling to his knees. He could be praying but his lips aren't aching with the Holy Word. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, he chants. Holy Slayer, her slim arms and the pale stretch of her stomach and her sex stained a bright pink like one of Dru's flowers.   
  
Always her, Dru says, dropping opposite him. Her dark hair is covered with a fragile patch of lace. She reaches one cold finger out to trace a crucifix on his bare chest. Her long nail catches the fine hair, tugs at it, and he winces like a human boy. Drusilla croons at him, her burgundy lips dripping with tiny beads of glass. You'll see, she tells him, her voice pitched high and low with the air. She'll turn you inside out.  
  
_Run and catch  
_  
It's me that'll turn her inside out, Spike replies. His words are hollow and slick like Buffy underneath him, keening sharply as her body tilts upwards. Dru smiles, the curve of her mouth flickering like candlelight. She starts to peel back the soft green shawl that's slung about her thin shoulders. Spike pulls her forward, feels her rag-doll form collapse against his, the flush of her body glued against him in heat. Like the sunlight, it devours his hand as it creeps across the cold pavement. He hefts the splintered wood, feels it pierce his palm. It doesn't burn like a cross.  
  
I taught you better than this, Dru whispers, and her lips start to melt, gushing over him like holy water. It stings and reddens his skin, and he pushes her away, feels Dru blow into his cracks and crevices.   
  
Red picks up the stake. She turns it over, gazing like crystal into the point. She sighs, her scarlet hair melting into the curve of her shoulder until all she wears is a crimson shield sewn with fine, lacy stitches. It's woman's work, and her breasts are full and the color of pale rain.   
  
I rise from the ash, she tells him sadly. Her tears drip down her fine rounded cheekbones and her lovely nose. She's a picture, a vase of cut glass in the sunlight. Like the one Mother used to keep in the drawing room. I don't really want to.   
  
Doesn't mean you have to, Spike tells her, and they're standing in front of a pale statue. Looks like Dru, he says, and studies the emerald green snakes that writhe around the woman's thighs. He can smell the sweat now, the fine mist that beads on Red's belly. He drops to his knees but she holds him at arm's length. Her onyx rings cut into his shoulders.   
  
Why are you still here? she asks him, looking steadily at him. Her hair is starting to crackle now. You should go. It'll be daylight soon.   
_  
Run and catch  
_  
Red, it's daylight now.   
  
She lifts her fingers to her nose and sniffs daintly. Red drops down next to him, pulls him down on top of her. He knows his existance is her sufferance. Can't you smell it? she questions, lifting a fingerful of blood to his lips. It slips down her nail in twists like candy writing.   
  
I don't want this.   
  
But you tell me you do, Dawn warns him, and it's her pinned beneath his body, her that's pressed sharply against his groin. She is dressed in filmy layers of chiffon, white tulle that bunches at her small breasts. He drops his hand to the silver belt that's slung about her waist. I'm not a sacrifical lamb, William.   
  
He can smell the honeysuckle and violet grapes in her smooth chestnut hair. She puts her small, wet mouth to his ear. Her soft hand fumbles for him, and they collide. He can feel his arousal driving helplessly against Dawn's white skirt.   
_  
The lamb  
_  
Don't think I don't remember, she whispers. You can taste it on my skin, can't you? Under the talcum powder and the body wash, you can still smell the musk. Would it be worth it, William? She nips at his ear with her pearl teeth, leaving pin-prick rubies to tumble to the floor beside them. Wouldn't have to bite.   
  
Don't want to bite, Spike whispers back, but it's just a gasp in the middle of the cold. He raises his head from the cloud of swirling snow to look at Buffy. She lifts her hands, and ice glitters in her golden crown. Stop fooling, he tells her long diamond gown. The light teases him. It brushes feather-light touches along his legs, his torso.   
_  
is caught  
_  
Maybe you're right, Buffy whispers, and the snow stops falling.   
  
Spike rises, trailing ebony dust behind him.   
  
Wish you'd stop doing that, he said, jerking his head at the dust. Buffy's black crepe dress cascades down her front, her breasts barely visible behind the smooth ruffles that tie up to her throat. He puts his hands around her waist, and feels the skin there tighten and constrict. She moans faintly and he can feel her calloused hand take hold of him.   
  
You're my one true girl, Spike tells her as she vamps out, her delicate features clouding. He slams his hand against the wall, and it crumbles into a feast of tiny black insects. Buffy whimpers, her bumps and curves pulled taut by his hold.   
  
Stop, her mouth seems to say, but the tongue can't move in time to convince him. He slides inside her, her grasp on him almost stilling his hips for a moment. She's tight, pulled like a piece of flayed skin on some demon's bed, her tears jagged and crystal-sharp. He feels a candle heat pulsing against her eyelids, but the crypt is dark like him.  
_  
In the blackberry patch.   
  
  
_


End file.
